Letters to a Stranger
by Republic-Of-Heaven
Summary: Chapter 3 is up. Manfred Bloor sits in his study writing letters to nobody. They contain his thoughts on people and aspects of his life, and his very deepest emotions.
1. Emma Tolly

'Letters to a Stranger' by Republic-Of-Heaven.

Summary: Manfred Bloor sits in his study writing letters to a nobody. They contain his thoughts on people and aspects of his life, and his very deepest emotions.

A quick note from me: Alright, this story is set some time after Charlie Bone and the Wilderness Wolf. There's nothing much more to say, so voila…

* * *

She was called Emilia Moon back then. Such a pretty name, and yet she did not seem to want it.

She was not the first I had hypnotised, but the first to be put into what I call a sleep.

I remember the exhilaration, that time eight years ago that she first fell under my 'influence'. It is such a wonderful feeling, seeing the look on someone's face as they succumb to your power.

I was almost glad when great-grandpa informed me that she needed another dose of my endowment as she was beginning to resurface.

That time was easy. The Moons brought her to an empty classroom one Saturday afternoon. She did not resist, merely standing there in front of me, yet there was a little too much life in her eyes for my comfort.

"I don't understand, Manfred. What's happening?" she said in her cold expressionless voice.

"It's nothing," I murmured as her face once more took on that familiar dreamy look that all the pupils of the Academy knew so well.

The final time I had to do it was different. I did not know it then, but it was the last time I would have power over her before that wretched Bone ruined everything.

She was far more violent that time, shouting at me in confusion. Then suddenly, without warning, she went limp.

"What name were you given at birth?" I asked cautiously. I knew she could never find out on her own, but her strange behaviour worried me.

"I said, what name were you given?" She just looked at the floor, not saying a word.

I decided it was time to hypnotise her. With my hands I turned her head to face mine.

She started screaming. Louder and louder.

My father's voice broke through, accompanied by a fierce pounding on the closed door.

"Manfred! What in heaven's name are you doing? You're supposed to be hypnotising the brat, not terrorising her." He did not say any more and I assumed he had gone away.

The girl would not stop screaming. I had no idea what was wrong with her, but the incessant noise angered me. I smacked her across the face once, twice. The shrieking stopped and she broke into sobs. I turned my eyes on her and all was well. She was dutiful little Emilia once more.

Yet now, however, she has become one of _them_, one of Bone's cronies. They seem more like his minions than his friends, following him about like dogs.

I catch Emma looking at me sometimes, and the expression on her face is hard to read. Often it shows hatred, but also a kind of pity. I expect she feels jealous of my new ability to summon fire. After all, both my endowment s have been far greater than hers ever will be.

Yours sincerely,

M. L. Bloor.

* * *

Yet another note from me: Like it so far? Why not review? hint, hint Next chapter – Manfred thinks of his father.

ROH


	2. Dr Bloor

Note: Manfred considers the headmaster of Bloor's Academy.

* * *

I hate my father.

I suppose you will be shocked, but it is the truth.

Out of those people who hate their parents, most seem to do so because of a troubled childhood, yet I cannot lay a claim to that special privilege.

My childhood was perfectly adequate, if a little strange in parts, for I used to love the well-respected Doctor Harold Bloor. He doted on me, used to try his hardest to nurture the special talent I had for persuading people to do our will. It was the never-ending orders that irritated me the most. Always, "Manfred! Come here! Bring my briefcase." Every day he seemed to treat me as his dogsbody. Yet I did not mind, back then.

My Father was (and still is) headmaster of the greatest school in the district. All you have to do is look at the academic results in the newspapers to see that Bloor's Academy is a prestigious place of education.

That is why we must respect tradition. Fifty years ago, the Drama department were certainly not allowed to wear the ridiculous creations they now flaunt in my face. Convention is the key to success, as every well-bred man knows.

That is the task my father has left me when I become headmaster. One day I shall be the man who stands up in assemblies to report on any trivial pieces of news.

Nobody in the city will need to ask who I am and, if a visitor chances to spot me one day as I take a walk, they will be told that I am the eminent Mr Bloor, headmaster of the illustrious Bloor's Academy.

I would like that.

My father's job cannot be easy, for he must control the hooligans that inhabit this place. It is an honour to help him in his mission, although the school would run far more smoothly if he were to consult me when a problem arose, instead of his repulsive grandfather.

It is a pity the distinguished Dr Bloor is not endowed, for a talent like shapeshifting is sorely needed in the fight against the opposition now that Yolanda and Yorath are both dead.

Yet back to my original statement for a moment. Why _do _I hate my father? It is because he has used me. When I do well I am applauded, then forgotten; when I fail I am ridiculed and called an imbecile.

I hate him. I hate the whole damned lot of them. I can manage perfectly well on my own. When I am headmaster I shall do as I please. Without any help from my relatives I shall be able to defeat my enemies with ease.

They will be sorry they ever crossed the path of a fire-bringer.

M.B.

Note number two: There you have it. In the next installment, Manfred muses about his face before and aster the leopard attack.


	3. Night

Note: Yes, I know I said this would be about Manfred's face, but I changed my mind.

* * *

Night.

I am standing in front of the mirror in my room. It has become a nightly ritual before I sleep. I am not much to look at, of that I am certain. 'Skin and bones' would be me in three words.

It is only when all the rest of the school is sleeping that I can relax. All day I feel so tense and jumpy, as if someone is following me, but on my own at midnight I feel safe.

I light the candles in my room one by one in an anticlockwise direction. I do not know why I always do it that way, certainly no-one except me knows about it. Some students wonder what takes up so many hours when could be sleeping. I have heard them laughing about it as I patrol the corridors at break times.

I have just opened the window. The air drifting in is sharp and cold, yet I love it. It cools my mind and I am able to think more clearly than I ever can while working at my desk. It is here, staring out over the grounds that I have the best ideas. They are usually forgotten by morning, for I can never find paper and a pen when I need them. Yet, even if I do remember, the thought that felt the sweetest in the small hours seems stupid by breakfast.

I suppose I go mad in the darkness. Other people seem to have their moments of craziness with friends, where an hour of laughing and pointless joking follows, but I have mine on my own. Pacing about is a firm favourite, as is drumming my fingers on the back of a wooden chair. It is a worry that I might wake someone, but in those moods I do not care what I do.

This room has been mine all my life. When I was about eleven some older boys came up to me complaining about the 'unfairness' of the situation, yet how they came to that conclusion is beyond me. I am the headmaster's son, I stay here during the holidays; so would anyone in their right mind actually expect me to sleep in a dormitory? Really, when I was too young to join the rest of the school for lessons (I had a tutor), it was only sensible that I slept on my own. It would have been preposterous to have to alternate rooms every week just to satisfy the principles of a few 'knights in shining armour' trying to make the school a more democratic place. Democracy may be the way the country is run, but it has no place in a great school like Bloor's Academy.

One of my candles just went out. If I carry on writing much longer I will be using the light of the early morning sun instead. It has taken me a long time to pen this, despite its lack of length, for writing my own thoughts is a novel experience for me.

When I first thought of writing these letters, I planned to give them to my own son, if I ever have one, but now I realise I would rather keep them to myself.

With all due respect (depending on who you-that-is-reading-this are),

Manfred Bloor.

* * *

Note number dos: Next time will be thoughts on Billy Raven.

ROH

PS. Reviews give me the 'moments of craziness' that I mentioned above. (ie. I like them)

R


End file.
